


Of Dolls or of Riddles

by generalsleepy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Saw (Movies)
Genre: (for Saw not Phantom), Amputation, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Cutting, F/M, Fire, Flashbacks, Gore, Guns, Knives, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Shooting, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Whump, hyperthermia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-06-17 09:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15458382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/pseuds/generalsleepy
Summary: Erik crosses paths with John Kramer and accepts his ideology. They decide that Christine Daaé and Raoul de Chagny are worthy of being tested.Christine and Raoul wake up trapped and alone. Both have an hour. Raoul's game is to put himself through a gauntlet of painful trials to save his family. Christine's game is kill Raoul, or else an explosion will be set off in the opera house.Meanwhile, Detective Hamid Kadivar suspects that his erstwhile friend might be the Jigsaw killer and decides he has to stop him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between Saw I and Saw II. Some tags apply to later chapters. You could theoretically read this without knowing much about the Saw movies, only googling a few character names. Mind the warning for graphic violence, because to borrow a phrase: yes, there will be blood.

Consciousness came to Christine in waves, as if she were bobbing to the surface of the ocean, only to be pulled back down again. Gradually, she stayed above long enough to take stock of her surroundings.

It was cold. She was sitting in a hard-backed chair. There was something around her wrists holding them in place. She opened her eyes, blinking in even the dim light. It was dark, but she could tell it wasn't her apartment. 

Finally, her head was clear enough for her to begin panicking.

She tugged frantically on her wrists, but they barely moved. When she looked down, she saw they were duct-taped to the arms of the wooden chair. She thrashed wildly. The chair creaked, but she couldn’t get free.

Christine screamed. “Help! Help! Please, help!” Her heart smashed against her ribs as if it were just as desperate to escape.

Her gaze flashed around the room she was in, looking for some way out. The room was small, the walls stained concrete. Rusted nozzles on the walls made her guess that this was an abandoned shower in some industrial building. The only light was provided by a camping lantern on the ground. Beside the lantern was an old CRT TV.

Horrible, sickly realization spread through her. Her last desperate little bit of denial was squashed when the TV buzzed to life with a field of static.

“Oh, god,” Christine moaned once the picture cleared. She recognized the white-faced, black-eyed doll from the news—everyone had seen the terrifying image. Probably, like Christine, most people in this city had had nightmares about it. Now, she was living that nightmare, and there was no way to wake up.

 _“Hello, Christine.”_ The deep, gravelly voice crept under Christine’s skin. She heard herself whimper while her eyes were fixed on the screen.

_“I want to play a game. You have spent your life in the pursuit of success. All of your effort, energy, and boundless ambition has been focused solely on the goal of becoming a great singer. For this ambition, you have set aside relationships and any opportunity to reflect on your life. All that you want to be is a voice. You are close to achieving your goal.”_

Her eyes welled up with tears. Was that it? Was her entire crime just caring too much about her career? Not having a perfect work-life balance at twenty-five? But, then, she knew that the Jigsaw Killer had never needed any legitimate reason for choosing his victims; he taught “lessons” to criminals and people with depression. No one was really safe.

That didn’t mean it didn't physically pain her how unfair it was. She'd done nothing. _It wasn't fair_.

_“But, now you question your singular focus. You contemplate a new distraction. A lost soul to take under your wing.”_

The camera jerkily panned over to what looked like a photograph on the table. I took her a moment to recognize it as a picture of her and Raoul de Chagny stepping out of a Starbucks, holding their drinks and chatting animatedly.

“No!” She redoubled her thrashing. “You stay away from him. You bastard!”

Her screams cut off the next few words of Jigsaw’s sermon. _“...Sacrifice ambition for infatuation? Today, you will learn what is truly important to you. The opera house in which you were supposed to be performing tonight has been rigged with explosives. In one hour, the explosives will be triggered, killing dozens.”_

Her eyes managed to grow wider, and for a moment she wasn’t able to breathe for fear.

_“To stop this from occurring, you must make a sacrifice—you must prove how far you will go to achieve your ambition. Raoul is somewhere in this building. To prevent the explosion, you must find him and kill him before the hour is up.”_

She screamed in inarticulate protest and yanked on the tape until she could almost pull her wrist free.

 _“Know that I’m not lying, Christine.”_ The camera panned to the other side of the puppet. Her stomach lurched as she saw another picture of Raoul. In this one, he lay slumped on a concrete floor, unnaturally limp. She mostly identified him by the mop of long, blond hair.

“Raoul…” she choked around a fresh wave of tears.

The camera centered back on the puppet. _“You will be provided with the tools to complete your task. It will be easy. I can assure you that you do not truly know this man you think you love. You have never truly known him. You aren’t aware of all of the days he has spent longing for death. Even your presence has not been enough to make him truly appreciate his life. By killing him, you will be, in fact, granting him his with.”_

“You bastard,” she sobbed. “You won’t get away with this!”

_“It is time for you to decide what is more important to you: the crowds or one pathetic soul. Live or die. Make your choice.”_

As soon as the video ended, Christine screamed. “Help me! Help! God, please!”

Finally, she managed to free first one hand and then the other. She leap to her feet, but the minimal amount of freedom didn’t mean much. She was still trapped, still helpless.

She became aware of a bulky shape in her pocket. She dug out a Casio watch set to a countdown timer. It read _59:08_ and ticking down.

“Shit,” she breathed. She struggled to make her brain work clearly. There was a way out of this. There had to be. If she was going to make it through, she needed to think.

Jigsaw hadn’t given her any reason to believe that the opera house was really rigged with explosives. An act of mass murder like that would be unlike anything the killer had attempted before; but, then, from what the media seemed to be reporting, he didn't lie in his tapes. In any case, She wasn't prepared to call his bluff.

For now, Christine would go on the assumption that he had been telling the truth. That didn’t mean she was going to go along with, though. No one was going to die today.

Jigsaw had condemned her for her ambition. Well, now he was going to find out what that ambition was made of, what her father had taught her since she was a girl: grit, will, and never, _ever_ saying “die.”

This monster didn’t know her. He didn’t know anything about her. She was going to show him just how big of a mistake he had made.

The rusted metal door on the wall was unlocked, but it took an effort for her to pry it open. The hallway outside was dark, so she picked up the lantern. She paused as fear momentarily kept her rooted to the ground. She took a deep breath.

“Fuck you.”

She stepped out of the room


	2. Chapter 2

Raoul’s head hurt. His whole body was stiff and sore. His wrists and ankles were in agony. Every slight movement provoked a sharp pain. He could feel blood trickling down his hands and feet. He couldn’t pull away from whatever was hurting him. He was sitting and something was holding him in place.

He dragged his heavy eyelids open, and for a moment he had no idea what he was looking at.

Metal. Metal lines criss-crossing in front of his face. There wasn’t much light wherever he was, but what little there was glinted off the sharp edges. Knives, he realized. Interlocking rows of knives were held inches in front of his face by some device.

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find his voice. He tried again and managed a weak, “Help!” His voice grew stronger until he was screaming at the top of his lungs. “Help! Help me! Anyone! Help!”

His wrists and ankles were strapped down. There were some kind of spikes embedded in the arms and legs of the chair which stabbed into his flesh. Moving only drove the spikes further in. He turned his face down to get a better look. In the process, he inadvertently pressed his forehead to the knives. It wasn’t enough contact to hurt, but enough to make him jerk back with a yelp.

The brief glance had been enough for him to notice something hanging off the left arm of the chair. Trying to move his hand as little possible, he groped out for it. Despite the effort, he was panting and whimpering in pain as blood flowed freely by he time fingers closed around the thin, rectangular plastic object. As he moved it around in his hand, his thumb landed on a button on one of the sides.

His blood ran cold as he realized what it was he was holding. _Oh, God, oh, God._ He didn’t want to believe what he was becoming increasingly sure of. He pressed the button.

_“Hello, Raoul.”_

_God help me._

_“I want to play a game,"_ the gravelly voice said. _"You have been provided with every possible privilege by birth, and yet you still do not appreciate your life. Your cowardice, your self-pity have even led you to contemplate ending that life on numerous occasions. You are undeserving of the advantages you have been given. Today, you will be provided with an opportunity to find a purpose for your pathetic existence. It is not important where you are. All that is important is that there is no one who will be coming to help you. You must reach the central room of this building within one hour. At stake are the lives that you genuinely care about.”_

Raoul’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t have the time to even try to lie to himself, before Jigsaw continued.

_“If you can reach the room in time, your brother, sister, and nephew will be freed. If you fail, they will die.”_

“No!” he pled uselessly with the disembodied voice. “Let them go! Please!” Whatever motive this man thought he had to do this to Raoul, there was no reason for him to do anything to Philippe, Pauline, and René. His nephew was ten years old. _Ten_. He knew that the Jigsaw killer had kidnapped and threatened to kill a child before. In that case, the mother had managed to free herself and her child. Otherwise, they would have both been murdered by the man he had blackmailed him into kidnapping them.

_“This journey will require sacrifice. A sacrifice of blood. To release yourself from this chair, you must press the lever in front of you. As you can see, your hands are occupied. The only way to reach the lever is to push through the knives. This shouldn’t be hard for you. You have cut yourself many times for no reason.”_

Raoul squeezed his eyes shut as his body shuddered with sobs. It hadn’t been for no good reason. It was because he was sick. He was trying his best to stop; he wasn’t perfect, but he was trying. This man didn’t know anything about him. How dare he even pretend to know and think he should punish Raoul. More than that, to punish his family.

_“So, indulge in your… coping mechanism. Remember: the clock is ticking. To survive, you will need to reflect on who you truly are. Live or die, Raoul. Make your choice.”_

The tape ended. Now, there was nothing to distract from his heart pounding, breaths coming in short, harsh gasps. He thrashed wildly, forgetting that it would only hurt him more. His mind was blank with sheer panic. He was going to die. Philippe and Pauline and René were going to die. He couldn’t do this. He was useless, and he was going to fail, and their bodies were going to be found with puzzle pieces carved out of their flesh, and it would be Raoul's fault. 

 _Breathe_ , a steady voice that sounded like his brother’s said inside his head. _Breathe. Six in, hold two, ten out. Again._

He relaxed at least enough so that he wasn’t hyperventilating. The only thing that he could be sure of was that he was going to fail if he couldn’t keep his head together.

Jigsaw hadn’t given him any hard proof, but he would go on the assumption that his family was in danger. All that he could do for now was follow this lunatic’s instructions. He had to get to the room he was talking about on the tape. To do that, first he needed to get out of this chair.

His heart still pounded in his ears, his whole body cringing at the thought of what he was about to do. He gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that there wasn’t any other choice. He tried to angle his face down, hopefully to keep his eyes as far away from the knives as possible. He wasn’t sure how much that would be possible, but he couldn’t stop to think about it. It was important for him to think clearly, but not as much when all he needed to do was _move_.

 _Lord, you are Holy above all others, and all of the strength that I need_ _—_

Raoul screamed as the knives cut into his face. There was no way he could have prepared himself for the pain. He wanted to pull back from the blades, but he knew that he couldn’t. The only way through was to keep going.

He felt the knives drag down his temples, his cheeks, his jaw. The soft skin under one of his eyes sliced open, sending fresh spikes of panic through him. With a scream that rattled his whole body, he jerked his head forward until it touched smooth metal. It took one more push, and then he heard a heavy metallic clunk. The pressure on his wrists and ankles disappeared. He yanked  his hands and feet out of place as he let his head fall back. He slithered his body down until he could duck his head under the knives, and then lunged forward.

He fell into a pile on the ground, shaking, gasping, and sobbing. Rivers of blood welled up from the wounds covering his face. For a few seconds, he was sure that it wasn’t going to stop and that he was going to bleed out there on the floor.

 _No. Get up. You need to get the hell up. Now_.

Raoul dragged himself up to his knees. With trembling hands, he pressed the front of his shirt to his face. Blood soaked through the fabric in seconds. He held it there until the flow of blood was slightly less horrific. There wasn’t time to wait for anything more, before he stumbled to his feet. He had to wipe away blood several times before he could open his eyes. Finally, his vision was clear enough for him to look around.

He was surrounded on three sides by a lattice of rusted metal. In front of him, was an open door. After a few seconds he recognized it as a disused elevator. It seemed to fit with the usual pattern of locations that Jigsaw chose to torture his victims. Next, he noticed a red line painted on the ground, heading out the elevator and then out to the left. He wiped at his face with bloody hands and then walked out.

Once he turned the corner, he saw something on the ground. Drops of blood hit the concrete when he leaned down to pick it up. It was a digital watch, reading _53:51_. The milliseconds were falling.

Fifty-four minutes. That was all he had left to rescue his family.

He winced as his face throbbed but pushed the pain away. Nothing else mattered now. He didn’t have time to let pain or fear slow him down. His safety, his comfort, his life, didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching that room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I stole the Knife Chair trap from _Saw IV_. In my defense, we never see a completed, functional version of it. I promise that the rest of the traps featured are new, only borrowing a few elements here and there.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hamid took a long drag on his cigarette, as he stared at the wall and listened to the audiotape for the hundredth time._

“Rise and shine, Adam. You’re probably wondering where you are.”

_He watched absently as the smoke hung in the air, then slowly dissipated. He felt detached, from the taste of tobacco in his mouth, the image of the office around him, even the voice on the tape as he still processed every word._

“Up until now, you’ve stayed in the shadows, watching others live their lives.”

_Somehow this was the tape that hit him hardest, got under his skin. Jigsaw, the philosopher-killer, spent about half a minute insulting in the most personal terms a twenty-six year old kid. A kid who, by the time the tape was being recorded, Jigsaw more or less expected to die._

_Somehow that hit harder even than the tapes vividly outlining grisly tortures. This one seemed to uniquely capture the cruelty of the man behind the voice._

“Will you let yourself die, or will you do something about it? Live or die…”

_Someone knocked on the door, then entered before Hamid could say anything. He turned to see Darius Norouzi leaning against the doorframe. “That again?” his partner said in his usual near-monotone, punctuated by the slightest raised eyebrow._

_“Mm.” He turned his attention back to the ashtray, as he flicked ash off the end of the cigarette. He had already listened to the tape twice while he was sitting at his desk in the near dark. His impulse was to rewind and play it from beginning again._

_“You’re not going to learn anything new listening to it again.”_

_“We have his voice.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “He lets us so close, but he knows we can’t touch him.”_

_“Don’t let this guy under your skin, Hamid. You know what that can do to you.” He didn’t need to mention the name. They both understood what he was talking about. “Come on. Let’s stop by the deli. You look like you could use a sandwich and a coffee. And then a good night’s sleep.”_

_Hamid stared at the nearly burned-down cigarette hanging from his fingers. He wanted to go. It would be so much easier to just put this out of his head; try to remember what “normal” had been before this case took over his life. He couldn’t though. He couldn’t justify inaction._

_“Darius.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“I need to talk to you a minute.” He switched to Farsi, the indication that this was something serious, meant for just the two of them._

_Any levity disappeared from Darius’ face. He shut the door. “What is it?” he asked as he walked over to the desk._

_Hamid hesitated. He took a deep breath. “I have a theory about who the Jigsaw Killer is.”_

_Darius’ eyes widened. “What?”_

_“I think I have a suspect.”_

_“Who?” He leaned in with his brow furrowed. “We’ve got lists of possibles, but nothing solid. What information do you have?”_

_“It’s someone I know. Not connected to the investigation.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and stared at the cassette tape._

_“Hamid, you’ve got to lay this all out for me.”_

_“Okay.” He stubbed out the dogend. He leaned back in his chair and looked at his partner. “His name is Erik Destler. He’s… well, I suppose we were friends once. He helped me out when I first came to the States. He was born with a facial deformity. It made him a recluse. Well, the face among other things. I think I was probably the person he was closest to, and we saw each other maybe once a week maybe to tea or play cards.”_

_“And where do you jump to this guy being a serial killer?”_

_“About four months back, I found out that he’d been stalking this woman. A girl about half his age he’d met once. I found a pile of photos in his apartment of this girl just walking around town—clearly having no idea she’s being followed. When I confronted him about it, he lost it. Told me it was none of his his business, and he was in love with this girl, and he was sure she would love him back. I genuinely thought he was about a step from physically attacking me.”_

_Darius’ eyebrows rose. “God.”_

_“I told him that if he didn’t leave this girl alone, I would have to report him for what he was doing. I left when he started screaming. After that, I tried to call him, but he wouldn’t answer his phone. He had the girl’s name written down in his apartment. I felt like I was obligated to warn her, so I got into contact. She told me she knew that someone was sending her harassing notes and calls. I told her I’d try to talk to him, that I was a cop, and that she could call me if she ever needed help.”_

_“You didn’t think you had enough to call in an official complaint?”_

_He sighed. “You know stalking’s a hard case to make. I offered, but the girl didn’t want to go through it, at least not at that point. Over the next couple weeks, I kept in contact with her. Everything seemed fine. Maybe a month ago, Erik called me again. He said that he’d stayed away from the girl. He didn’t apologize, but then, he hasn’t done that in all the years I’ve known him.”_

_“So, the guy’s a creep. Still not on the level of kidnapping a guy and throwing him in a cage full of razor wire."_

_“Whenever Jigsaw came up, he was one of those people who bought into the ‘life lessons’ crap. Part of it, I thought, was just him wanting to wind me up; but at the same time, he’s enough of a misanthrope he could buy into that ideology, at least in theory.”_

_“So do a bunch of lunatics who don’t get further than ranting behind a computer screen.”_

_“He’s an engineer. An architect. Genius, really. Antisocial, isolated, criminal tendencies.”_

_Darius’ eyes widened. “Fits our profile. Wealthy?”_

_“Lives modestly, doesn’t flaunt anything, but I know that he ran an engineering firm in the Middle East for years. He definitely made money quite a deal of money, and I can’t imagine him spending it anywhere.”_

_“You genuinely think that this friend of yours could be a psychopath?”_

_Hamid was silent. He wanted to pull out another cigarette, just to buy himself time. But, he’d opened this Pandora’s box: he couldn’t back off now. “Like I said. I thought he was a recluse, a misanthrope, really an asshole, if I’m being honest. Then, he started talking about Jigsaw. Then, I saw him react when I told him he had no right to demand that girl do whatever he wanted. I considered that maybe he’d fallen into a darker place. Or that maybe I’d been clouded by feeling like I owed him.” He took a deep breath. His eyes settled on the tape recorder._

I’ll leave you in this room to rot.

_“Yes. I believe Erik is capable of being the Jigsaw killer.”_

_The only sound was the muted bustle of the bullpen outside the door. Now, Hamid did reach for a cigarette._

_“Okay.” Darius said finally. “So, where do we go from here?”_

_“This isn’t enough to go to the Chief with. It’s a hunch, and only because I know him.”_

_“You could at least try telling Kerry.”_

_“Not yet. There is something I want to try. At least first.”_

_“What?”_

_“I want to borrow your car.”_

_Darius raised an eyebrow in a silent question._

_“I want to tail him. He’ll recognize my car by now. There’s no way being Jigsaw is a part-time job for him. If he’s behind this, I’ll see him either going to a workshop, buying supplies, even a going to staging ground for one of the games.”_

_“Hamid,” his voice was stern, “if you’re right—”_

_“I’m not going to engage,” Hamid said. “I just want to get some evidence I can bring to the Chief. I know Jigsaw’s always ready to kill any cop that gets in his way. And, if Erik is Jigsaw, then I don't expect him to treat me any differently.Trust me, I’m not aiming to die.”_

_Darius nodded slowly. He crossed his arms, his face blank but mind clearly working. “One condition.”_

_“I think I can guess.”_

_“There’s no way you’re going out there alone.”_

_Hamid put the cigarette between his lips and searched around for his lighter. “I assume I don’t have a choice.”_

_“Nope.”_

_He sighed, before lighting the cigarette. “Fine. Twist my arm.”_

_“When do you want to start?”_

_“Tonight.”_

_Darius gave a sardonic sigh. “I’ll have to explain to my cat why I’m working late again. One of these days I’m going to come home to a note in the hallway.”_

_“If she kicks you out you can sleep on my couch.”_

_“You know she’d take me for every cent I’m worth.”_

_They both chuckled, then Hamid joined Darius on his feet. Hamid held the nearly-empty pack out to him, already knowing the answer._

_Darius shook his head. “I thought you said you didn’t aim to die?”_

_Hamid tucked the cigarettes and lighter into his jacket. “Not anytime soon, I don’t.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where we begin with the flashbacks, because how can you write a Saw fanfic without flashbacks? Going forward, flashbacks will be in italics. Generally, the exact timing of the flashbacks isn't important, and if it is it'll be mentioned in another chapter. 
> 
> Also, yes, this is an Adam and Lawrence live AU. Look, I'm a simple woman, I have simple needs.


	4. Chapter 4

_Christine picked out another lock of Raoul’s hair and started braiding it. “I am so jealous.”_

_“Huh?” Raoul looked up from his phone._

_“Your hair is always perfect. You probably don’t even do anything to it.”_

_“I mean, I clean it and brush it.”_

_“Exactly. Most people have to have a seventeen-step ritual to get their hair like yours. You probably just use some two-in-one shampoo-conditioner and a cheap hairbrush. There are girls in my voice classes who would kill you out of jealousy.”_

_“Then, I guess thank you for not murdering me? Ooh.” He held up the phone to show her a picture of a hairless cat looking at chicken breasts on a stove._

_Christine cackled. “His fallen comrades.”_

_They sat on a bench in the park, Christine with her legs tucked under her, playing with Raoul’s hair while they scrolled through funny cat pictures on Tumblr. The sun was shining down, with just enough of a breeze to keep it from being uncomfortable. They hadn’t had any particular plans when they met up for boba teas, just to walk around and chat. Hanging out with Raoul was always so comfortable and easy._

_Raoul put down his empty cup “Christine?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_He opened his mouth a moment, then closed it again. She could see the hesitation written all over his face. “I… Sorry, it’s a dumb question.”_

_“I’m sure it’s not dumb. Just ask me.”_

_“No, it’s… I’m sorry.”_

_“Here, I’ll ask an actually dumb question. Fuck. marry, kill: Freddy Kreuger, Michael Meyers, Jason Voorhees? There. Try to top that one in stupidity.”_

_Raoul laughed. He still didn’t quite make eye contact as he said, “Are me and you… God, I’m sorry, this is so dumb… are we dating?”_

Oh, no.

_If they had been in a car, Christine would have seriously considered opening the door and rolling out._

_“I mean, are we… could I call you my girlfriend and that would be… okay? It’s totally okay if not. I just wanted to… know.”_

_Christine bought time finishing the braid. She was honestly surprised Raoul had held back on asking that question for this long. Raoul had never had a girlfriend before. Christine hadn’t thought much about kissing him lightly about a month after they reunited. It was only after she’d asked about his shocked expression that he’d explained that was the first time he’d been kissed since the playful peck they’d given each other when they were twelve. Raoul was sweet and kind and naïve and too much of a romantic for his own good._

_The idea of casually dating without any formal commitments or labels probably wouldn’t make much sense or be that appealing to him. Especially not after last week when she went back to his apartment after a Valentine’s Day party and impulsively asked if she could go down on him. She hadn’t been sure whether or not he’d say yes. She’d definitely surprised when he offered to return the favor._

_They hadn’t talked about it since, other than Raoul shyly saying that it was “really good” (an understatement, in her opinion). He hadn’t given any sign that he wanted a repeat performance or to go any further, and Christine had decided not to press him. Now, with distance, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for not thinking about how Raoul might feel._

_She’d known that it had been his first time doing anything. If she’d thought about it, she’d have realized that Raoul wouldn’t like the idea of having sex without being at least in a serious relationship. Calling him a “prude” sounded too dismissive. He had a pretty and pat idea of what he wanted from life. When Christine realized that, at this point in her life, she couldn’t give him what she wanted, she should have called whatever this was off. She hadn't, though._

_She shrugged. “I mean, I thought we would just keep it, you know, lowkey. I mean, I have the opera and then voice lessons and you have school. So, maybe, we can just keep going like this. Unless you don’t want to.”_

_“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to, you know, make sure we both knew, if that makes sense.”_

_She nodded. “Yeah.”_

_Raoul hadn’t asked any questions about exclusivity; she couldn’t imagine that being a priority of his, though. She didn’t really care much either. Or, at least, hr was willing to put up with the limbo she’d put them in._

_Raoul smiled brightly. “Sorry. I know that was weird.”_

_“It’s not weird. It’s definitely not the weirdest thing about you.” She grinned and gave him a quick peck. “You didn’t answer the question. Freddy, Michael, Jason?”_

_“Okay, okay.” He narrowed his eyes looking genuinely thoughtful. “Kill Freddy; he’s creepy. Marry Jason; I feel like he has a kind of stability. Definitely sleep with Michael.”_

_“Really? You seem so sure of that.”_

_“Yeah._ Halloween 5 _. He was kind of handsome. Who would you go with?”_

_“Freddy, duh.”_

_“Wait, what?”_

_“He’s charming.”_

_“He’s really not.”_

_“Look, I don’t know what to tell you. And you thought you were weird.” She kissed him again, hoping she’d managed to carry them over the awkwardness. When she pulled back, he was smiling. She looked over his shoulder and pointed at his phone screen. “Oh, my gosh. Look at that ridiculous son of a bitch.”_

_She was grateful when both of their attentions turned to the fat, fluffy cat making a stupid face._

_She knew that she would eventually have to have the conversation she’d just sidestepped. Raoul was madly in love with her. That wasn’t his fault. Christine didn’t have the time or energy to be that in love with him, and that wasn’t her fault either. What was her fault was not officially breaking things off, which she knew would be the only way he could have some closure. But, that would mean losing him, and she couldn’t do that. For the first time, there was something that made her as happy as performing. After all these years, though, she didn’t know if there was room enough in her life to care as much as she needed to about both of them._

_So, they looked at cat videos and had tea together and kissed and she let it stay like that._

* * *

 It had happened later that day, she remembered now. It was around 9:00 PM, and she’d been walking back to her car after a voice class. She'd been dog-tired and fantasizing about her bed, though at least the exhaustion tamped down her nerves at the next day's dress rehearsal. The parking lot in front of the office building was open enough she’d never felt unsafe—no keys between her knuckles or phone on 9-1.

She’d dropped into the driver’s seat with a sigh and taken a moment just to breathe. There had been an Anna Moffo CD she’d picked up a few days ago and had been meaning to listen to. She’d leaned over to rummage around the glove compartment.

Then, out of nowhere, a black-gloved hand had grabbed her arm and yanked. She'd only been able to get out half a scream before something sharp was jabbed into her neck. All she remembered after that was blind panic, and then she was tied to a chair in this hellhole.

She wondered if Raoul had already been captured by the time she was attacked. She wondered what had happened to him, if he had been hurt—hurt worse than she had.

She tried to push away those thoughts. They weren’t helpful, especially not letting her mind dwell on worries about Raoul. She needed to focus on what was happening _now_ , or else she wouldn’t survive.

After a few minutes of walking ( _47:08_ according to the watch she’d put on her wrist) Christine headed up a set of stairs into a hallway dimly lit by a few red lights on the walls. She didn’t let go of the lantern, though; she wasn’t going to give up any resource until she absolutely had to.

Red arrows were painted on the walls every few yards. It was impossible not to feel like a rat in a maze. She came across pipes along the walls, a few fuse boxes and messages printed on the fall informing her that she was in _AREA 2A_. Nothing gave her a clear idea of what type of building she was in. She wasn’t sure how much help that information would be to her at this moment in any case.

It couldn’t be a building that it actually took an hour to walk through. She wouldn’t put it past the person who had painted the arrows to waste time leading her around in circles. (It still wouldn’t be worth it to risk striking out on her own). She also wouldn’t pretend to herself that her task would just be a literal walk from A to B. There had to be some horrors waiting for her.

Some electrodes in the maze.

She found a first aid box bolted on the wall. She was already castigating herself for hoping for anything when she tugged it open. The box was empty, but she heard a key ping to the ground.

_Of course, a fucking key_.

She used the lantern to search out the little silver key. After a moment’s deliberation, she decided it would be more secure to tuck the key into her bra rather than the pocket of her dress. Something told her it wouldn’t be the key to the door at the end of this hallway. She’d gone through two doors, including the one to the shower, and neither of them had been locked.

She had her hand on the door handle when she heard a muffled noise, after a moment she recognized it as a human voice.  Her heart jumped into her throat. There was someone else trapped here with her. Someone else in danger.

_Raoul_.

_No._ She gritted her teeth. He wouldn’t give her sixty minutes if she could find him within ten. She still had time to figure out what she was going to do. This was some other “test.” Apparently, there was more she had to prove to this son of a bitch.

She took a deep breath, squeezed the handle of the lantern tight, pulled open the door.

There wasn’t much light in the room, but it still took a few seconds of blinking for her eyes to adjust. The noises were clearer now. For a moment, Christine just stared, trying to process what she was seeing.

“Carlotta!”

Carlotta Guidicelli, the famous coloratura soprano who was supposed to be wowing audiences tomorrow as Rusalka, stood in the center of the room. Her back was to a metal bar, extending from floor to the low ceiling, clearly newer than the stained and rusted metal surrounding them. Two poles on either side went up to neck-level, connected to the central one by a horizontal bar. Two additional brick-sized slabs of metal were attached to it, about six inches from her throat on each side.

“Oh, my God!” She raced over to her, as if she had some plan for what she would do.

She could see more details from closer up. Carlotta was wearing the long blue dress meant for her to wear onstage. There was a metal strap around her forehead, another around her waist, and two more shackles around her ankles. Her hands were pulled down as far as they would go and shackled behind her back to the pole. There was a piece of leather covering her mouth and throat, laced up in the back like a corset. It forced her shoulders down even further, while top of the leather cut into the flesh of her cheeks, leaving bloody marks.

Her eyes were massive and frantic. The mask was so tight only a few muffled sounds could escape, but Christine was sure that she was screaming.

“It’s me, Christine.” She realized she wasn’t even sure if the older woman would even recognize her. They didn't share any scenes, and Carlotta wasn't much for developing a rapport with her fellow cast and crew. “I don’t know where we are. We’re trapped. It’s Jigsaw. It’s fucking Jigsaw.” Carlotta somehow screamed louder. “I’m gonna get us out of here. We can make it through this. We just have to… we have to think. And we have to work together. There’s got to be a tape. Have you seen a tape player or a TV or…?”

Carlotta jerked her face upward as best she could. Christine followed her gaze until she saw mini cassette player attached to a string hanging from the ceiling, well out of her arm’s reach.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” she muttered. Did he really have to make every little thing a puzzle or a challenge? Was that really going to teach her anything? It took her three jumps to get a good enough grip on the player to yank it free. As soon as it was in hand, she pressed play. Her jaw clenched in instinctive rage at the first word from the voice that was now her most hated sound in the world.

_“Before you is the woman known to her admirers as ‘La Carlotta.’ She has been gifted with a incredible voice, leading to an illustrious career. She is, however, unworthy. She is aware of her inevitable decline and paranoid about younger singers taking the place she thinks she is owed. You are a particular obsession of hers. Jealous of your already evident talent, she has schemed against you for months, spreading lies and using her influence to keep you from the roles you deserved.”_

Carlotta thrashed her head violently from side to side in a desperate denial.

_“She is undeserving of the fame and fortune that her voice has brought her. In forty-five seconds, the clamps on either side of her neck will close, permanently silencing that voice.”_

“No!” Christine screamed. Even though she knew the voice behind the tape couldn’t hear her, she still couldn’t just listen mutely to him spewing threats and insults. The terror in Carlotta’s eyes spoke louder than any scream could.

_“Ironically, you can use your voice, which she so hated and feared, to save hers. If you are able to produce the correct note before the time runs out, a panel will unlock, allowing you to stop the device. Or, you can continue on, preserving your voice and not wasting time on a woman who has done nothing to deserve her life. In making your decision, consider whether she would put herself to the trouble of saving you, were your roles reversed. Make your choice.”_

As soon as the tape clicked to an end, Carlotta redoubled her screams from behind the gag.

“It’s okay! It's okay! I’m going to get you out of this. I’m not going to leave you.” Both of them knew damn well that this was the farthest thing from  _okay_ but hopefully Carlotta at least knew that Christine wasn't going to leave; that she was going to try her whatever the dickbag on the tape said.

She ran to the other side of the post. Carlotta’s hands were shackled by cuffs welded to the post. Above that was a small box with a lid, like the cases around electrical outlets. Even though she knew it was helpless, she still tugged at it frantically. It stayed locked in place, apparently until she sang a certain note: which one she had no idea.

She remembered the key from the hallway. Just eyeballing it, she thought that it would fit with the keyholes on the cuffs. Obviously, getting Carlotta’s hands free wouldn’t have much effect on stopping those clamps, which she was sure would start moving any second. It was at least something, though. She dug the key out of her bra and leaned in to get a closer look at the cuffs.

There was only a fraction of a second of relief that the key fit, before she heard the snapping sound, nothing like a lock opening.

_Oh, no, no, no. Stupid, stupid!_

She thought maybe she’d set off a tripwire. Whatever exactly she had done didn’t matter. All that did was that the clamps had started moving in with a mechanical groan.

Carlotta thrashed and screamed in mad desperation. Screams were echoing around Christine’s brain too. Forty-five seconds. She had forty-five fucking seconds—probably less now—to save Carlotta’s life. She didn’t even know what note she was supposed to sing. Was there some clue in the message that she’d missed? There had to be something she was missing.   

She couldn’t find anything on this side of the post. She ran back around to face Carlotta. Her eyes raked up and down Carlotta’s body, before catching on black marks on her chest, just below the corset. She tugged the neckline of her dress down to get a clearer look at the symbols printed clearly in black marker: _F#7_.

_Fuck_.

The note was well beyond Christine’s usual range. Her higher register was alright, but not the strongest. Carlotta would almost definitely be able to produce the note: she had sung the Queen of the Night and Olympia with ease. Christine tugged as hard as she could at the top of the gag, but it wouldn’t budge, only provoking muffled yelps of pain from Carlotta. Maybe with more force, she could pry it off. But, then, by the time she had it off, Carlotta might not have time left to ready herself and hit the note.

There wasn’t time. There wasn’t time for anything. The only thing Christine could do was try to hit the note herself. She took a deep breath and gave herself a few seconds to warm up. She hated feeling like losing time, but she knew that it would make her more likely to hit the note. Then, she opened her mouth and went as high as she could.

The panel didn’t budge. She was well in her head voice and into her whistle register. Panic welled up, threatening to choke her. She tried again, somehow forcing her voice even higher, higher than she thought she’d ever sung. Nothing.

Carlotta was screaming, probably consumed with terror and the same bitter frustration as Christine. She couldn't waste time and couldn't risk making herself more panicked by checking how close the clamps were.

She wasn’t going to let Carlotta die. He wasn’t going to fucking win.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and screwed up her face, and put everything that she had into pushing the highest note possible out of herself.

There was a click. She opened her eyes to see that the panel had fallen open, revealing a red button. She smashed it with her hand.

The whirring of the motor abruptly stopped, leaving only Carlotta’s screams. Christine looked up to see the clamps frozen just centimeters from the sides of her neck.

“Oh, God.” Her shoulders slumped, near boneless with relief. She realized that she was crying.  
  
"It's okay. You're okay. It's over. It's stopped. I'm gonna get get you out of this."  She looked from the button to Carlotta's hands. She was pretty sure that it had been a single trip wire she'd triggered when she'd first tried to unlock the cuffs. It couldn't be as if Jigsaw would want her to just leave Carlotta chained up.  
  
But, still...  
  
She squatted to search for the key. "I'm sorry this happened to you," she babbled. "I'm sorry. He's only doing this to you because of me. I know it's all lies. I know everything he said on that tape was bullshit.” It didn’t matter whether it was true or not: it wasn’t as if anything he’d said make her deserving of having her neck slowly crushed. Key in hand, she stood up.

Her heart was pounding again as she pressed a hand to the button. With the other, she clumsily fitted the key into the lock. She flinched. The shackle clicked open; nothing else happened. Slowly, ready to slap it back, she withdrew the hand on the button. The clamps didn’t move.

“Shit,” she breathed. She quickly undid the cuff on Calotta’s other hand. The second they were both free, her hands flew up to claw at the gag. “It’s alright. I’m gonna get the rest of them, you’re gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Moving as quickly as she could, Christine unlocked the cuffs around her forehead, waist, and feet. Carlotta immediately lurched forward. She stumbled and fell onto her knees, still pulling desperately at the gag.

“I’ll get it. I’ve got you.” Christine hurried over to her and reached for the corset. Within a few seconds of tugging at and fiddling with the knot between the top pair of eyelets, she realized it wasn’t going to give way easily. She glanced at the watch. _40:10_.

“I’m sorry. I can’t—I’ve got to keep going. I’m running out of time. If I don’t—” Her eyes dashed around the room frantically, before stopping on the lantern. “Wait.”

She took the few steps over to it, knocked it on the side, then quickly stomped on it, just enough to break the glass. She picked out the largest shard and went back to Carlotta.

“Here.” She held out the piece of glass. “You’ll have to cut through the strings yourself. I need to keep going. He told me that if I don’t—if I don’t do something in the next hour, he’ll set off a bomb in the opera house. I don’t know the way out. I don’t know if there’s a way out of here. Try to get out and warn them. When you go out this door, head left. That’s where I came from. Just follow the arrows in reverse. I think it’ll be safer. Maybe. But, be careful. He could have traps all over. I don’t know what he might do. Just… be careful. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Christine couldn’t tell what Carlotta was trying to shout from behind the gag, but what mattered was that she took the piece of glass.

Just as she was about to leave, she remembered the lantern. The light had gone out when she had stepped on it, and Christine wasn’t optimistic about the odds of it still working. On the off-chance, though, she left it for Carlotta. Maybe she would be able to do something with it. At least Christine wasn’t leaving her completely helpless—or at least she could tell herself that she wasn’t.

“If you can’t find a way out, I’ll come back. I promise. I’m sorry.”

She had one last quick glance of Carlotta’s wild brown eyes staring at her, while she struggled with the knots behind her back. Then, she turned and hurried out of the room, back to the path she had been following, silently hoping that those few minutes wouldn’t be the difference between life and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s brief, but yes, there is a flashback within a flashback in this chapter. _Now_ it’s a Saw fic.


	5. Chapter 5

_The abandoned paint factory was Amanda's suggestion. It was only in the last few months that the cumbersome security measures, due to the lingering toxic chemicals, were lifted. Hoffman informed him that the location had been on the list of locations scouted by the police, as part of their new initiative (and John had to admit that he was somewhat impressed with their cleverness) to keep tabs on locations that fit the “Jigsaw Killer” profile._

_Of course, they had no idea that there was a wolf hiding among them._

_He hadn't pinned down particularly what he planned to use it for. It was a possibility for William Easton’s game. He was still more attached to the Zoological Institute for that particular game, though. His apprentices were in agreement that Institute's location inside the city made it more difficult to infiltrate._

_The factory was an hour outside the city, with much of the surrounding area deserted as well. The commute was inconvenient on its own, but the isolation made up for it._

_Amanda had driven him there. She had noticed that the drive was tiring for him, but he was pleased that she'd known not to comment._

_She did protest when he said that he wanted to scope out the building on his own first._

_He touched the walkie-talkie on the dashboard. “I'll contact you if I need anything.”_

_She pursed her lips and nodded. The worry in her eyes was on one hand comforting, but was also an indication that she didn't trust his judgment absolutely, when she knew that was what he expected of her. He would need to address that._

_Hoffman had replaced the lock on one of the side doors when he made his first, cursory visit. John unlocked it with his key._

_He turned on his flashlight and entered the building._

_As an engineer, he'd always had a gift for looking at a space or set of raw materials and visualizing the finished product. He’d seen buildings, inventions, and now the tools he used in the games. He would go through the building again with Amanda and Hoffman by his side, taking pictures and making notes. This walkthrough was just… “impressionistic.”_

_He found himself absorbed in thought as he descended further into the building.  He had no time to react between the footstep on metal, the whoosh of air, and the cord around his neck. He instinctively reached for it, causing the walkie-talkie to smash to the ground. He tried to dig his fingers between the ligature and his throat, but it was too tight. The loose end of the cord was yanked, pulling him to knees._

_A tall, dark-clad figure stepped out of the shadows. The man was wearing a suit. Through the darkness, John could see that the man was wearing a black full-face mask. He was tall and thin and moved with a subtle, graceful menace. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he said, voice low and sharp._

_“I could ask you the same question.”_

_“This is my home.” He walked forward, keeping the cord--a material John couldn’t identify--taut, just on the verge of cutting off air. "I can assume that you are working with the man who broke in last month. If so, I regret choosing not to dispose of him. Now, I repeat my question. Why are you here?”_

_“A strange place to make a home.” He had a pocket knife with him. The question was whether he would be quick enough to cut the lasso and then move to defend himself. Judging by how quickly the man had captured him, he wasn’t sure whether he would be able to._

_“Not if one prefers solitude. Though, it seems as if there’s nowhere even near this wretched city where I can find any peace. One last time: why are you here?”_

_“For the same reason as you are. Solitude.”_

_The man laughed, a jagged cackle. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. This real estate is spoken for, and I have no intention of renting out space. Now, will you tell me who you are?”_

_John hesitated. Everything about the man’s demeanor told him that he was prepared to kill to protect his treasured isolation. John couldn’t see what answer he could give that would dissuade the man. Except perhaps one. Yes, it was a risk; but then, John knew that risk was a constant part of the profession he had chosen. Maybe this was the day it was going to end._

_His death wouldn’t truly be the end of the work, though. That was what mattered._

_“My name is John, though I know that name won’t have any meaning to you. There is another one that might, though. It was one chosen for me. Jigsaw.”_

_Even from behind the mask, John could detect the man’s surprise. His posture stiffened and his breath hitched a second. “The man they call the Jigsaw killer.”_

_“Yes.”_

_The man paused a few seconds. “An odd attempt at self-preservation. Do you expect me to be afraid of you? Because what I know of your crimes does not lead me to believe that you would necessarily be a threat in person. Or, do you believe that I will want to turn you into the police for attention? You must know that attention is the last thing that I desire.”_

_“You asked me who I was. I answered you.”_

_There was another pause. “I believe that you’re telling the truth.”_

_“I suppose, then, it's up to you what you're going to do about it.”_

_The man reached inside his suit pocket. John desperately wished that he could see the man’s expression. He pulled out a knife. “I would like to speak to you, sir, if you can agree to be civil.”_

_“I think that’s a reasonable proposition.”_

_The man calmly cut through the cord, then tossed his knife to the side. John hadn’t realized that he’d been having as much difficulty breathing as he had. He removed the noose from his neck. On looking more closely, he thought it might have been catgut._

_John followed his instinct and slowly took the knife from his pocket. He did the same as the other man had._

_“Hm. I’m impressed. Thank you.”_

_“It seemed to be basic courtesy.” The man walked over and held out a hand. John took it and let himself be helped to his feet. “I suppose I should know the name of the man whose house I broke into.”_

_“Erik.”_

_John supposed it wasn’t fair to expect a surname from Erik when he hadn’t given one himself._

_“I have been an admirer of your work for some time,” Erik said._

_“I’m less interested in admirers, than I am in whether people have learned from what I do.”_

_“A fair point. I can promise you that I have. I've lived here—well, I split my time here and in the city—for years. When I first heard about your work, I thought you were just another killer."_

_(John bit back the rebuttal that, no, he had never killed anyone. The way that Erik had said "first heard," make him want to listen for more)._

_"Then the media began to report what you really were doing; that you weren't a killer. I was intrigued by what they reported about what you were trying to teach."_

_"What lessons are those?"_

_"The value of life. How sometimes an appreciation of life can only be gained through trials." Erik paused. John saw him tense slightly and then relax, before he continued. "I realized how little value I had placed on my own life. I placed no value on life altogether. Not on anyone's. Only on... existence."_

_He paused a moment, and then slowly raised his hand to remove the mask. In that moment, John was grateful he was inured to the sight of carnage. The man’s face was hardly the most disturbing malformation of a human body he had ever seen, but it was still striking._

_There was a black hole in place of a nose. Thin, cracked lips didn’t fully cover his yellowed teeth. Grayish, sallow skin clung to bone. The overall effect was that of a semi-living skull._

_“I was born like this,” Erik said. (John supposed he must be using some kind of ventriloquy to speak intelligibly). “I was abandoned by my family and raised in… difficult circumstances. I held the entire world responsible for my misfortune. I hated all of them, hated myself, yet placed myself above them.” The corner of his mouth lifted in something like a smile. “I’ve done things that would definitely make me worthy of being tested by you. I’m sure there will be time later for me to detail all the things I’ve done.”_

_John considered a long moment. “I appreciate your honesty. I have to ask why you’re telling me all of this.”_

_Erik absently tapped the mask on his hand. ”The man who cut his wrist, and then cut himself to ribbons to survive. The addict who would gut a man to save her life. A man who would saw off his own foot to protect his family. I thought that the terrible things I had done had been justified for my own survival and pleasure. Then I realized these people had been given the opportunity to understand life in a way that I had never done."_

_John wondered what he would think of the knowledge that that young addict had joined his work. He definitely appreciated that Erik saw beyond Dr. Gordon's multiple public statements that he wasn't grateful for what John had done for him._

_(He'd been considering putting Gordon and the photographer through another game since the first time he saw them on the news. He was certain at least the doctor had learned something, but clearly not as much as he needed. There were other tests that he considered higher priorities at the moment, though)._

_"I'd never thought there would be anyone who would admit they deserved to be tested."_

_"Perhaps my life was abject enough, even I couldn't keep up the lie that it was worth anything." He fitted the mask back over his face. "There is much more I would like to tell you, if possible."_

_“I have the time,” John said. He had to admit that he desperately wanted to hear what else Erik had to say. He’d never encountered someone who hadn’t been through a test, who seemed perfectly rational, and who so wholeheartedly embraced his message._

_“Would you be willing to follow me to where I live? I’ll be able to show you more of the factory as well.”_

_“I would appreciate that.”_

_Erik gestured at John to follow him, then turned._ _John reasoned that if Erik wanted to kill him, he could have easily done it when he had the lasso around his neck. He decided that there was no reason not to indulge his curiosity. He could contact Amanda if he needed to tell her he would be a long time. He also couldn’t deny that he had a sense about this man. Just like when he looked at a pile of metal and saw how it would become a tool, he looked at Erik and saw within him the makings of an asset._

* * *

They sipped tea—Erik made a wonderful masala chai—as they watched the bank of monitors showing a view of every location in the factory in play.

“I didn’t doubt that she would stop to save that woman,” Erik commented as they watched Christine Daaé walk quickly down a hallway.

John nodded. “Do you believe she’ll try to save the boy at the risk of all those others?”

“I’ve told you before, I think she’ll choose the lives of the many over the few. When the choice is immediate and in front of her, she’ll do what she has to.”

He nodded again. From what he’d observed of the young woman, he agreed with Erik’s assessment. Her greatest weakness was inability to understand her life’s priorities. This test would reveal to her what was truly meaningful. If she made the correct choice, she would understand life better than any other person her age.

Still, the choice was hers. Human nature was predictable to a degree, but never flawlessly. When she looked into the sad, puppy-dog eyes her sense of reason and justice might melt away. It all remained to be seen.

His eyes turned to another monitor. “And what do you think about the boy?”

Erik followed his gaze. Raoul de Chagny was walking much more unsteadily, holding onto the wall for stability. It was difficult to make out in the grainy video, but he was leaving behind a drops of blood on the ground and dark handprints on the wall.

“I suppose I have to be impressed. At the very least, his masochism is serving him well.”

“You’d be surprised how many people who can hurt themselves for no reason, are unwilling to shed blood to survive.” The wealthy, handsome, able-bodied young man who sliced his flesh to ribbons and needed therapy and pills to persuade him to hold off on killing himself was almost the textbook example of someone who had no appreciation for his life. He wondered if the lesson had been learned yet. If not, there were many opportunities for education ahead.

“Hm.”

John noticed the darkness in Erik’s eyes, visible through the mask. “It can’t ever be personal,” he reminded him, in a grave but not accusatory tone.

Erik swallowed. “Yes. I understand.”

For the most part, John believed that Erik did understand that. He knew it was a struggle for him, and John admired his progress. But, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t watching his newest apprentice.

Erik wouldn’t go untested. No one did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Amanda’s only appearance. If you’re wondering where she is for the rest of this fic, she’s, uh… doing stuff, I guess. As for Logan he’s, um… he’s taking Melissa to Disneyland. There. That’ll work. And, if you want to know where apprentice Lawrence is: bold you to assume I would give the ending of Saw 3D the time of day, let alone include it in my self-indulgent crossover.
> 
> Also, I guess people from the Saw City area are like people from the Bay Area who just call San Francisco "the city."


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, the cuts on his face stopped bleeding. Raoul had stained the front of his NAVY shirt red with blood from staunching the cuts. The sweat on the back of his hand stung the wounds when he had to brush away the occasional trickle into eyes or mouth. The movement also aggravated the wounds on his wrists. He was tired and woozy, requiring a conscious effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other, wincing as the wounds on his ankles twinged with each step. He hoped that it was just exhaustion from the lingering effects of whatever he'd been drugged with, and not the effects of blood loss. He couldn’t afford that this early. 

He kept one hand on the wall as he followed the trail of red paint on the ground. He’d pried loose one of the knives from the first trap and was clutching it tightly.

_If he let you have a knife, there’s no way it’s going to do you any good_ , he reminded himself. _At least not in any way you want it to._

The watch on his wrist announced _40:23_.

He’d followed the red line out of the elevator and down a hallway. There were rusted-out pipes on the walls and floor. It seemed like some kind of disused factory. He couldn’t place it exactly, though. Was he still even in the city? How close were they to other people? Did it even matter?

The red line stopped in front of a wall with a pair of doors. After a few moments searching around for other red marks, he realized that he wasn’t getting any more obvious clues.

One door was rusted metal. The other was painted bright yellow, chipped and stained, emblazoned with the bold, angry lettering reading.  _WARNING: CYANIDE_. The plain door had a handle, while the other looked like it had a more complex bolting mechanism. There was a window a little under two-feet-by-two-feet at around shoulder-level on the yellow door.

Slowly, he reached for the handle on the plain door. He pulled it open by centimeters, until he felt and heard the mechanism click open. He stopped.

No. It couldn’t be that easy. It couldn’t just make sense. This son of a bitch wouldn’t bring him two doors and put salvation behind the safe, unlocked one.

He turned to the yellow door. Whatever factory this was, it clearly wasn’t functioning anymore. That meant the danger would be gone, didn't it?

His eyes caught on the thick glass. He could barely make out a faint reflection of his own face, scored with dark lines, caked in blood. It was definitely going to scar, a distant, useless part of his brain commented. As if there was any reason to bother thinking about what he’d look like if he made it out, when there was a good chance he wasn’t even going to survive.

_Reflection_.

_Reflect on who you truly are._

_Oh, fuck you._

He tried the handle on the yellow door. It didn’t budge. _Why would it?_ He stepped back and tried to make his brain work. This was the door Jigsaw wanted him to go through. There had to be a way through it. There had to be something he could use. He hit the handle of his knife against the glass, again and again and again. The knife slipped, and sliced his hand open on the blade with a yelp. He tried once again and got the tiniest crack.

“Goddammit!” He flung the knife to the ground and desperately searched around for something, anything, else. He saw a fist-sized rock. Maybe it was left when the factory shuttered; maybe it was Jigsaw’s set dressing. Either way, he picked it up and then chucked it at the window as hard as he could. To his immense relief, the rock made it through.

It still only punched a hole through the window rather than shattering it. Raoul tugged off his shirt, stiff with blood, and wrapped it around his forearm, providing as much padding as possible. He pushed and scraped away as much of the glass as he could. He looked around for something to give him a boost, already knowing it would be useless. So, instead, he laid out the shirt on the bottom of the busted-open window and then hoisted himself up.

In spite of his best efforts, he still cut his arms, stomach, and back as he slithered through the hole. He yelled and cried, but couldn’t stop moving forward. He wasn’t thinking about how to dismount. The best he could manage was folding his arms over his face as he flopped to the concrete ground. For the second time that day, he lay in a bleeding, twitching pile.

* * *

_“Raoul. Give me your arm.”_  

_Raoul didn’t look up at his brother. He fiddled with the cuff of his flannel shirt. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”_

_“It’s 80 degrees out,” Philippe said, trying to meet Raoul’s eyes._

_“I’m fine.” He didn’t even bother trying to sound convincing._

_“You don’t have to show me. You can just tell me.” He reached across the couch and took Raoul’s fidgeting hand. “I’m not mad, I promise. I just need to make sure you’re okay.”_

_“It wasn’t—I just wasn’t thinking, and…”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_He slowly rolled up his left sleeve just enough to show the cut on his upper forearm. “I’m sorry,” he said in response to the pained look in Philippe’s eyes._

_“It’s okay,” he repeated. He gently took Raoul by the wrist to look more closely at the cut. Raoul knew it was deeper than he thought it would be when he made it. That was the problem with the scissors: the blades were blunt, and Raoul couldn’t make himself think rationally enough to wait for the blood to well up before continuing to dig into his skin. He’d wiped off the blood and put on a Band-Aid, but it was clear that wasn’t doing the job. “Did you cut yourself anywhere else?”_

_He nodded. “On my leg. Once. I wasn’t planning on it. I just felt nervous, and then I was thinking about it, and then I felt guilty, and…”_

_“Did you take your Ativan?”_

_“Not until after.” He looked away._

_“Hey.” Philippe put his knuckles under Raoul’s chin and gently turned his head back. “You know that a few years back, you wouldn’t have been able to stop after just this. You’re doing so much better. You know that just as a matter of fact. We both know that. You told me yourself that you knew everything wasn’t going to be fixed overnight. What matters is that you’re doing better. You really, really are.”_

_Raoul nodded. He couldn’t say that he was entirely convinced—he could have been doing better than he was, he could be trying harder—but he was more convinced than he used to be. The fact that he’d only cut himself twice while in that dark place_ was _better than where he had been just a year ago. Then he would have used a knife and would have left his arms and legs littered with red lines. It was only in the last five years that he’d been able to tell Philippe, after the day when he impulsively slashed his wrist vertically as deep as he could, just wanting it to stop._

_At first, Philippe had thought “tough love” was the best way to react. After Raoul’s stint in the hospital, and both of them learning about the nuts and bolts about depression, he’d turned to acceptance and focusing on the positives. Raoul was pretty sure it was also with pressure from his sisters that Philippe came around._

_“We should go clean those up: get some antibiotics and actual bandages. I think you can get away with people not asking too many questions if you wear a reasonable shirt that’s not going to give you heatstroke.”_

_“I’m going to meet up with Christine.”_

_“Ah. Then, you’re still not ready to tell her.”_

_Raoul shook his head. ‘Still not ready,’ implied that there would eventually be a time when he was ready to tell Christine. He wasn’t sure that the point where he could bring himself to tell the person he probably cared about more than anyone he wasn’t related to that his brain made him want to slice up his body. He wouldn’t come close to blaming her for not wanting to be around him after that._

_“The two of you are dating; you’re going to have to tell her about this eventually.”_

_“We’re not dating.”_

_Philippe shook his head. “Right. Sometimes, I forget that you two are infants.”_

_“I’m twenty-three.”_

_“Exactly. You might as well still be in middle school.”_

_Raoul rolled his eyes. Having more or less raised him, sometimes Philippe was more like his father, though with the extra closeness of siblings. Along with Léa and Pauline, he was the only person who could make him laugh even at a time like this._

_The two of them got to their feet. Philippe pulled him into a tight hug, easily dwarfing him. “I love you,” he said._

_“Love you, too.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes child abuse and endangerment in a way that I can see would be disturbing for some people who have no problem with blood and guts. It’s more or less my take on the scene from the first movie where Zep listens to Diana’s heartbeat. If you don’t want to read that, skip to the endnotes, and I’ll summarize all you need to know from the chapter.

The three of them were all gagged, strips of cloth between their teeth. Philippe had apparently screamed and cursed enough that the man covered his mouth with duct tape, wrapped around his whole head, so hair was ripped out of his scalp with every movement.

René was still crying, softer now after having used up nearly all his tears. Pauline was clearly terrified, but as collected as she could be. The three of them were all on the ground, the handcuffs around their wrists interlocked, keeping them in place. Their feet and Philippe and Pauline’s knees were bound with rope. Philippe had never felt so utterly helpless.

Their captor sat in an office chair at a small desk. He was reading through a stack of manilla folders. There was a handgun within reach.

The man wore strange black and red robes. He looked to be about average height and build. A hood obscured the upper part of his face, revealing a strong jaw and full lips. In just that partial view and his deep voice, there was a coldness, an utter emotionlessness that was difficult describe, but profoundly unsettling.

The three of them had been heading back into the city from the suburb about forty-five minutes away where Pauline and René lived. He’d driven down so the three of them could spend the day at the aquarium. Raoul hadn’t been able to make it because of a class he couldn’t miss. Fortunately, he was going to be free for their dinner at his and Philippe apartment. Between their schedules, it was difficult to organize time to meet up, so they took advantage of it whenever they could.

René had been babbling in frantic excitement about sea life, as he had been most of the ride, when they pulled into a gas station. Philippe had left the car to throw away some trash, before refilling the tank. That was all he remembered clearly. He had vague impressions of something tackling him, a flash of black and red.

Then he woke up in this room that looked like an office, dilapidated and from no later than the mid-seventies. All but one of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling were broken, with a lamp on the desk providing as much illumination.

“I don’t know if it’s a comfort to know that this has nothing to do with you,” he’d said in a horrifyingly flat voice. “It’s up to your brother to save you. If he succeeds, you’ll be let go. So: be quiet, don’t move, and just wait. Don’t do anything that might cause a change of plans.”

Philippe had bellowed curses and threats, as had Pauline. Eventually all they could do was plead with him him to let René go. What kind of monster could hold a _ten-year-boy_ hostage and threaten him with death? They begged him to keep them, kill them if he wanted, if he would just let the little boy go. Pauline had swallowed back her wailing after Philippe was gagged with the tape. She held on tight to René’s hands and occasionally gave muddled words of comfort.

Periodically, René would sob, “Maman!” or “Uncle Phil!” or ask if the police or Uncle Raoul was coming to rescue them. Thankfully (God; as if they could be thankful for anything), the man didn’t seem bothered by the little boy’s begging. He didn’t think that Pauline would have been able to calm René down had his crying provoked the man.

The man glanced at what Philippe figured was a digital alarm clock. “Forty minutes,” he announced without a hint of emotion.

 _Till what?_ Philippe felt grimly certain what the answer was, though. One hour until they were shot if Raoul didn’t do whatever this man wanted from him. He hated to think what was happening to his baby brother at this moment. He _knew_ that Raoul had be somewhere hurt and in danger.

He was powerless to help yet another family member as horrible things happened to them. Philippe was supposed to look after them. He’d never failed more at his duty than now.

The situation had prickled at a memory, a story in the news. A family, including a small child, held hostage, told that their survival depended on another family member.

Everyone in the city knew the story, but believed it could never happen to them. Philippe had found himself consciously relieved that Pauline and René lived out of the city and Léa was currently in France. He wasn’t convinced that Christine was a good match for Raoul, but he appreciated that their relationship meant that Raoul spent less time alone when he wasn’t in class or at their apartment.

They’d done _nothing_ to justify being targeted by that maniac, though. Certainly, there was no way that René had.

“Please,” Pauline said, barely intelligible from behind the gag. “Please, sir, just listen for a moment.”

The man looked up from his folder. Philippe expected another admonition to be quiet, but instead he stood. He held the gun casually at his side. Philippe’s heart managed to pound even more furiously in alarm when he approached Pauline. The man leaned down and pulled out her gag. Philippe craned his head as far as he could to look at his sister in profile.

“What?” the man intoned.

“Please.” Pauline was crying, but she was managing to keep his her voice more or less steady. “Please, let my son go. He’s too young to be able to have any idea where we are. You took his glasses, so he doesn’t have any idea what he looks like. Raoul will want to save us just as much, even if he’s not here. We practically raised him. We’re his brother and sister and his parents. You don’t need René. You can do anything you want to us. You can do anything… anything to Raoul.”

The last few words made Philippe’s stomach lurch and throat close. He had to keep in mind that Raoul would be saying the same thing if he were there. He knew that for a fact. Any sacrifice was justified to protect René.

“Just let my son go. You can’t want to kill a little boy. Please,” the tears were choking her now, “please just let my baby go.”

The man just stared down at her. Slowly he raised the gun to her head.

Philippe couldn’t help but cry out behind the gag. Pauline sobbed.

“You would really do anything to protect your son?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“No! No! Me! Take me!” Philippe screamed, knowing not a word was intelligible.

The barrel of the gun touched her head at an angle that, if he were to shoot, the bullet would smash through her skull without hitting Philippe or René. “Really.” The voice was deep and dark, rattling Philippe’s bones.

“Yes, yes. Anything,” Pauline gasped.

“No!”

He held the gun steady, unmoving against Pauline’s head. She took a deep breath, and Philippe could just barely see her squeeze her eyes shut.

Smoothly, the man lowered the gun and shot Pauline in the foot.

The three of them screamed as one.

Blood coursed out of the wound on the top of her foot, quickly forming a puddle beneath her. She moaned and sobbed in agony, only increasing when she tried to move the foot just an inch. She sounded as if she were about to vomit. " _Je t'en supplie!_ " she wept, falling into the French of their childhood the four siblings still used with each other. " _Dieu, aide-moi..._ "

“ _Maman! Maman!_ ” René wailed. Philippe knew that any tiny shred of safety the boy had had was gone in a moment. If his mother could be hurt, then nothing was right with the world and no one was safe. Philippe had felt that way even at twenty when their mother died in the hospital. He wished to God that he could be there to comfort his nephew. 

The man calmly brought the gun back to his side. “Be sure everyone has agreed to the rules of a contract before you make it.”

“You son of a bitch!” Philippe bellowed. “You monster! I’ll kill you! You motherfucker!”

The man turned and walked back to the desk. “Thirty-seven minutes,” he commented as he settled back into the chair, as if he hadn’t just shot a mother in front of her sobbing child. "The best thing that you can do for yourselves is  _just wait_.”

As he listened to Pauline and René sob, Philippe desperately wished that he could speak to them. He didn’t know what words of comfort he could possibly provide that would help, but he needed to at least be there for them. The best that he could do was grip his sister's and nephew’s hands tight. Their six hands tangled together, clinging for dear life.

He thought about his brother. He thought about how month by month he’d gotten to see the beautiful boy he’d raised come to life. Raoul was strong and brave. He’d survived so much in his life, so much more than he should have had to face. Whatever he was up against, Philippe _knew_ that his brother could do it.

He was going to survive. They were all going to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philippe, Raoul’s sister Pauline (another go-to headcanon name), and her ten-year-old son René are being held captive at gunpoint by a man that, hopefully if I succeed in my descriptions, we can tell is Hoffman. Raoul and Philippe live together in Saw City. Philippe, Pauline, and René were abducted while Philippe was picking them others up from out of town. Hoffman says that their survival is dependent on Raoul. Philippe suspects that this might be Jigsaw-related. Hoffman shoots Pauline in the foot. He says that there are fifty-six minutes left. We come back to these characters in one more chapter later in the fic, but the child endangerment is less explicit and confined to a few paragraphs and can probably be scrolled through.


	8. Chapter 8

Carlotta didn’t get the gag off until she was just about out of earshot of Christine. Christine was grateful she only had to listen to a few seconds of her screams.

Now, she was _sure_ that the red line on the ground was leading her in circles, or at least in a much more tortuous route than was possible. She was still making the judgement that it was better to follow orders than take the risk of striking out on her own. So, she ground her teeth and muttered the occasional, “Fuck you,” when she noticed something she’d seen before.

After turning a corner, she gradually recognized a muffled noise like a voice. Her throat tightened. She’d prayed that Carlotta and Raoul would be the only people she knew who would be drafted into this sadistic game. Somehow, deep down, she’d known that was a futile hope.

“I can hear you!” she shouted. “I want to help you! Keep making noise so I can find you!” She held her breath, listening for the slightest noise. She again heard what she thought was a scream from behind a gag. She followed the red arrows down a high walkway until she reached a ladder. She could see another red arrow a few yards further down the wall. 

She bit her lip as she glanced down at the watch. _35:17._

 _Shit_.

The person cried out again. She peered over the railing, but could only see an open work area. If she went too far off course and got lost in this place, it might take her more time than she had to get back. But, then, why would Jigsaw lead her past another captive without expecting her to go to them? If she was supposed to just continue on her merry way without even taking a look, why would he go to the trouble? 

She balled her hands into fists. None of that mattered, though. There was no way in hell she was going to just listen to a person in trouble and not at least try to help. She started down the ladder, quietly grateful she’d been wearing sneakers rather than ballet flats or heels when this psycho grabbed her.

By the time her feet touched the metal floor, she’d had an idea. She stepped out of her shoes without untying them, pulled off her tights, and then put the shoes back on her bare feet. The tights were made of a cheap, thin material, and there was already a hole on one inner thigh. With help from the key she’d instinctively tucked back into her bra, she was quickly able to slice the tights into a handful of brightly-colored strips. She tied one around the ladder, then went off in the direction of the voice.

Periodically, she would shout for the person to keep making noise. Every few yards, she tied another strip of fabric around a railing or pipe. She kept them all on the left, in case she needed to make any turns.

(She vaguely remembered Raoul talking about something like this with torches in _Minecraft_ . She’d never played video games before, but she found sweet, shy Raoul’s interest in them charming. He’d tried to guide her through a few minutes of _Mirror’s Edge_ , but eventually, they both accepted her incompetence. She’d had just as good a time sitting with her head in his lap, studying her Italian lessons, while he played. She loved those quiet, gentle moments she and Raoul shared. Being with Raoul was comfortable, nice. It was… easy).

She was pretty sure it was a man’s voice, getting louder with every step. She walked around a gray metal structure and then literally gasped. “Oh, my God!” 

There was a man standing on a what looked like a large upright furnace held up on several metal stilts. He was about ten feet off the ground. There was a chain around his neck, which was attached to some kind of pulley apparatus hanging from the ceiling. His hands were bound behind his back. She thought she could also see a rope around his chest. There was a gagged with some red cloth. 

Hanging down from the other end of the pulley was a length of rope, she thought connected to the rope around the man’s chest.

As soon as the man saw her, he redoubled his shouting.

“I’m here to help you!” she shouted. “I need—I have to be careful I don’t set off any traps. Jigsaw’s the one who put us here. But, we’re gonna be fine. I just need to find a tape. Tape…” Her eyes settled again on the rope. A mini tape recorder dangled from the end of it. “Shit,” she breathed.

It was a set-up. It had to be. Trying to free Carlotta had inadvertently set off the trap last time. Of course, Jigsaw would love the idea of having Christine be the one _really_ responsible for the killings. The man didn’t seem to be in immediate danger. Maybe, the lesson was that she was supposed to learn was to not interfere; that everything would be fine if she minded her own business.

There was a loud, metallic _chunk_ sound, and the man screamed.

When she looked up, the cover of the furnace he was standing on seemed to have dropped. Judging by the way the way the man was twisting and arch his back, this put more pressure on his neck. It looked like the rope had slack, but not the chain.

_Shit!_

So, she was wrong. That wasn’t the game. If she didn’t do anything, this man was going to slowly choke to death. Maybe Jigsaw still wanted her to walk off without doing a damn thing, but he probably already knew there was no way she was going to do that.

As carefully as she could, not putting any pressure on the rope, she pressed the play button.

_“Hello, Christine. If you are hearing this, you have strayed off the path. That was a mistake, but perhaps predictably, you have likely been drawn to risk dozens of distant lives for one in your presence. The man hanging is named Joseph Buquet. He is employed at a stagehand at the opera house where you perform. I won’t be surprised if you don’t recognize him._

_“Joseph’s life has had no impact. He lives alone. He has no friends or family, has never had a meaningful romantic relationship. Unlike yourself, he has no ambition or purpose to his life. Despite being diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, he continues to smoke heavily. He has no will to live. It is not worth your time to save him. I hope to demonstrate this futility to you. You should return to the path and leave this man to his fate, but you must make the choice.”_

As the man screamed, Christine let out a loud noise of frustration between her teeth. He was right in one way: she didn’t know Joseph Buquet. She blamed herself for that, though. So what if he was lonely? So what if he couldn’t quit smoking? She wasn’t going to just let him fucking die because of that.

Not sure what else to do, she grabbed hold of the rope and yanked. She could see the rope around Joseph’s chest tightening. She looped the rope around her forearm and hand and let her whole body weight hang from it. Twisting her neck awkwardly, she thought that she’d managed to lift Joseph up at least a little.

“Fuck!” She grunted in exertion. “I can’t… I can’t keep hanging on to it! I’m gonna try to climb up to you!” She slowly let the rope go. Joseph still let out a choking sound as the pressure was put back on his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she mumbled to herself. The furnace was smooth without obvious hand- or footholds. She ran around it, hoping she’d see something she hadn’t before.

The only option she had was to try to climb the rope and when she got to the top somehow swing herself over to where the man stood. She couldn’t fight back memories of gym class and painful failure. She was short, chubby, and unathletic, and that wasn’t supposed to matter, because her day-to-day life wasn’t supposed include climbing goddamn ropes.

She ran back over to the rope and stared at it, trying to figure out how she was going to do this. She grabbed hold of the rope as high above her head as she could. She gripped tight and tensed her muscles, unsure if she’d be able to lift herself more than an inch off the ground.

_Bang!_

In spite of her shock, she managed to keep hold of the rope as her head snapped over to look at at the metal stand. The whole thing was rattling, while Joseph screamed. She had just noticed the ripples of heat coming off of it, when there was another loud clanging sound. Three things happened at once: the platform Joseph was standing on fell away; flames jumped up from the top of what she now saw was an upright furnace; and the chain around Joseph’s neck detached from whatever had been holding it up. Suddenly, all of his weight hung on the rope Christine was clinging to.

She screamed as her arms were nearly wrenched out of their sockets. The rope slid a few inches through her grip, abrading her skin as it went. Ignoring the pain, she gripped the rope tighter, struggling to keep it still.

Joseph howled in pain. Looking up, Christine could see that the soles of his feet were only inches above the flames. The heat had to be intolerable. She realized with a lurch of horror that she wouldn’t be able to lift him any further. She hung her entire weight off of the rope, but still couldn’t make him budge.

There wasn’t any way out. She couldn’t let go of the rope for a second. She couldn’t lift him up high enough to get away from the flames. It took all of her strength to hold him where he was. That strength was going to fade soon. Her muscles were cramping, arms shaking. It felt like the rope was slipping through her hands millimeter by millimeter. She screamed again in frustration, tears streaming down her face.

She was disgusted with the voice in her head that reminded her of the time. Had the count reached thirty minutes? She didn’t know how much longer she could hold onto the rope, and she didn’t know how long it would take her to get to find… whatever she was looking for.

If she survived this, she would be be disgusted with herself for the rest of her life for wondering if this was a waste of time.

The rope slipped another inch.

“No!”

Joseph’s feet were in the flames now. He was kicking and writhing frantically, making it even harder for Christine to maintain her hold on the rope. She tried with all she had to pull him up, but all she could do was hold him where he was. His screams of agony rung in her ears. Eventually, she started to smell burning flesh.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t keep this up, and she couldn’t save him. Maybe she was just prolonging his suffering. She squeezed her eyes shut as she sobbed.

Why was this happening to her? Why was this happening to him? What could either of them have done to deserve ant?

The rope dropped. His jeans had caught fire, the flames climbing. If she didn’t pull him out right now he was going to die. She couldn’t. She couldn’t…

Her muscles gave out. The rope raced up through her hands and hissed through the pulley. It seemed like they shared a second of eye contact before Joseph Buquet fell into the furnace.

His wail merged with hers as she dropped to her knees. She covered her eyes and put her head on the floor, curled into the smallest ball she could. She screamed at the top of her lungs, afraid that she would hear Joseph’s death screams if she stopped.

 _You don’t have time_.

She knew that she didn’t have a choice but to think about the timer counting down, but the thought still disgusted her. An innocent man was dying horribly, and she had to count seconds.

Her voice broke, leaving her just sobbing. The only sound was the furnace burning. She assumed that meant Joseph was dead. She could only hope that he’d died quickly.

Her head snapped up with an inarticulate roar. “You motherfucker! Why are you doing this?!” she screamed at the ceiling. "You bastard fuck!" She smashed her fists on the concrete. She’d never been this angry in her life. She’d never known what it felt like to want to kill someone. Now she did. Now, she _knew_ with every fiber of her being that she could beat the man who had put her here to death with her bare hands.

She looked at the watch. _24:13_. She had twenty-four minutes, and she didn’t know how much further she had to go. She had twenty-four minutes left to figure out a way to save the opera house without killing Raoul. How in the hell was she supposed to do that, when she couldn’t save this man?

What if there wasn’t another way? What if…

 _No_. She wasn’t even going to think like that. After all this bastard had done to her, she wouldn’t let him fucking win.

She dragged herself to her feet. She kept her eyes down and tried to ignore the smell of burning flesh as she stumbled back in the direction she had come.

Twenty-four—probably twenty-three minutes by now. She swiped clumsily at her eyes. She didn’t have time to cry. She had to prove this sick son of a bitch wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

It had been eleven days since Hamid and Darius started their surveillance operation of Erik Destler. They carpooled to work in Darius’ car, left together at the end of their shift, then drove to the set of locations that they chose to start their nights from. A few days in, Hamid realized that some of their colleagues, detectives that they were, had probably come to some obvious conclusions based on their observations.

Hamid wished the reason for their behavior was that benign. It felt as if anything would be better than the reality of suspecting that his friend might be a serial killer.

The long days were wearing on both of them. Hamid told Darius multiple times that he didn’t have to join him, that he could use Hamid’s car as long Hamid was using his. Eventually the sheer exasperation of Darius’ brush-offs led him to stop. He had least let Hamid pay for the boxes of desserts from the local Iranian bakery they splurged on. They figured it was at least a slight subversion of the “cops and donuts” cliche.

There had been another body found in what was obviously a Jigsaw trap. Well, they found what was left of it. The tape had been damaged, so they were in the process of trying to match dental records from what was left of the jaw.

On top of that there was the Eric fucking Matthews debacle. As if the department needed any more bad press, along with their failure to capture the Jigsaw Killer. At least finally making Matthews face consequences was something they had control over.

They hadn't been able to link Erik to the location of the latest murder, but it wasn't as if they could follow him twenty-four/seven. Hamid had tried to contact Erik multiple times. He'd only gotten through once. Erik had, in a casual--for him--tone told him that he was well, and that he was spending some time out of the city. When Hamid had inquired further, he’d brushed away the questions; Hamid had taken the hint.

Unprompted, Erik had assured him that he hadn't gone anywhere near Miss Daaé.

“That's very good, Hamid had said, as though he deserved praise for not _stalking_ a woman.

Of course, Hamid hadn't mentioned that he'd seen Erik coming and going from his old apartment, admittedly infrequently. Several times, they had seen him driving around the campus of the college his victim attended.

He still didn't have a clear hypothesis for the reason why. He wondered if Erik might simply have found a new victim for his obsessive “love.” He hated that he had reached the point that that was the preferable alternative.

They had to be very careful about their surveillance. Hamid didn't know all of the details of Erik's life, but something told him that he would know what to look for to know he was being tailed.

Thankfully, Hamid and Darius weren't amateurs themselves either. It still meant that they didn't get the level of surveillance that they would have liked. Hamid still worried. He lay awake at night wondering whether or not the man a part of him still wanted to consider a friend was a heartless murderer.

On day eight, something intriguing finally started to happen. Hamid and Darius tailed Erik into one of the most upscale neighborhoods in the city. It was nowhere near where Erik lived, and Hamid couldn’t imagine him having any associates in the area. He noted in the back of his head that it was the neighborhood where the Gordon family had lived at the time of their kidnapping. Probably a coincidence, but then…

On day eleven, they came to a decision.

“We’re going to Kerry tomorrow,” Darius announced, as they were preparing to go on patrol.

Hamid nodded. “If anyone can figure out what to do with what we have so far, it’d be her.”

“She’ll give us hell for not coming to her sooner.”

“Of course.” Hamid pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We’ll probably deserve it.”

Darius chuckled. “What about tonight?”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“You've said that enough times, I think you can assume I've got the message by now. Same as always?”

“Mhm. Thank you, Darius.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They’d decided to switch from Darius’ Toyota Corolla to a rental car. Hamid trusted that as good of a job as they did of being subtle, Erik would eventually notice a single car tailing him.

They found Erik’s car at his apartment, a rarity. There was a convenient space with a decent view of the building with the help of binoculars, but not close enough to be obvious to an occupant looking out a window. Even more fortunately, they only had to wait about fifteen minutes before Erik left the apartment. By now, they knew how long to wait before following.

After they had been following the car for several minutes, Darius stated what they had both been thinking. “He’s headed out of the city.”

Hamid nodded. “It doesn’t look like he’s headed for the highway. What’s in that direction?”

“Nothing much for a while.”

“Wait, wait.”

“What?’

Hamid frowned as they turned onto a side-street to avoid being been. “There was something out there on our potential locations list.”

“The old paint factory.”

“Mhm.”

“We ruled it out.” Darius paused. “You don’t look convinced.”

“Where would be more likely to find Jigsaw then somewhere we’ve decided he’s unlikely to be?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’d like to give him enough distance, then drive out there and see if we can find any sign that there’s someone there. And, before you say anything, we’re not going to engage on our own. We’ll go to Kerry with whatever we have.”

Darius nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

“Right.”

They drove around idly until they concurred that Erik was probably far enough ahead that the wouldn’t see them on the same road.

“God,” Hamid grumbled, stretching his shoulders as he held onto the wheel. “I thought at least leaving this fucking city would be a relief.”

Darius let out a short, dry laugh. Even the moment of levity was at least something.

They stopped at a gas station a few miles out of the city. While Darius fueled up the car, Hamid used the payphone to leave a message on his own answering machine. He detailed where they were going and why. He tried not to think about the fact that the purpose of the message was an insurance policy in case neither of them survived. It wasn’t likely, he reminded himself. It was still worth the backup though, and at this point he’d given up on dissuading Darius.

It was about an hour drive out to the factory. They passed into the more rural area outside the city. He remembered Kerry theorizing that if industrial locations became impractical, they might have to consider that Jigsaw’s M.O. could change to make use of any sufficiently secure and isolated space. He decided not to consider that possibility at the moment.

The paint factory, abandoned after a toxic gas leak that killed several workers, loomed over the lonely landscape. Hamid had grown to hate the sight of rusted metal and concrete, the industrial corpses that littered their once densely-packed city.

He’d decided that once the Jigsaw Killer was behind bars he was going to move. He'd rather live anywhere else: New York, L.A., Detroit, fuck, Tehran looked better than this hellhole after everything that had happened.

They pulled onto an unkempt side road leading to the factory. As they drew closer, Hamid saw a car parked in front of the building. The first thing he registered was that out wasn't Erik's. He also knew that he recognized the red Kia from somewhere, though. With a sick lurch, it hit him.

“That's Christine's car.”

“What?”

“Christine Daaé. The girl Erik was stalking. I remember it from the pictures he'd taken.”

“That's not good.”

“No, it’s not.” Hamid's heart rate picked up. He hadn't considered that Erik had continued his obsession with the poor woman. He thought that the Jigsaw killings had been Erik changing his focus. There had been no sign of sexual obsession as a motive in the murders; Jigsaw’s pattern honestly seemed unusually asexual for a serial killer.

Maybe he'd found a way to convince himself that the woman he resented for rejecting him was guilty of some other sin requiring “testing.” He shouldn't have put anything past someone capable of this level of evil.

In the surge of concern for Christine, he almost didn't stop to acknowledge that he had confirmation that the man he had once considered a friend was a monster.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

They pulled up alongside the car. Hamid undid his seatbelt and got out almost before the car stopped moving. The driver’s side window of the Kia had been smashed in. Looking inside, he could see splatters of blood on the dashboard and seat; not enough to indicate a serious injury, but more than enough evidence that something was horribly wrong, as if they needed more.

His hand went to the gun at his hip. Darius walked up with two flashlights in hand.

“Blood,” Hamid said, voice gruff. “Not much, but… dammit.” He shook his head. “I didn't think he'd do this. I should have kept checking in with the girl.”

“No. Don’t go down that road now,” Darius said bluntly.

Hamid took a deep breath. He nodded. He took his phone from his pocket and dialed the station.

“Shit,” he grunted at the lack of signal.

“Nothing?”

“Why would there be?” He jammed it back in his pocket, already resigned. “Try yours,” he said, not expecting anything different. His eyes caught on a spot of color a few feet from the car. Picking it up, he identified it as an electric blue cell phone, the screen cracked. He pressed a few buttons until he found a gallery of photos. The first one he opened seemed to be of the backstage of a theater. It had to belong to Christine.

“Nothing,” Darius reported. He looked at the phone in Hamid’s hand. “The girl’s?”

“Yeah.” They stared at each other a long moment.

“We have a choice to make.”

Hamid nodded. “An hour drive back to the city. We don’t know what’s happening to the girl or how much time she has. That hour--”

“Two hours.”

“--Might be life and death.”

“Going in there’s a hell of a risk. The last two guys who tried it ended up leaving in a body bag and in an ambulance.”

Hamid knew he didn’t mean to be dismissive, only blunt, but Hamid’s stomach still twisted at the memory of Sing and Tapp: the men who had been his friends, murdered directly or indirectly by this son of a bitch. By the man whose lair they were considering bursting into. By Erik.

“I couldn’t live with myself if we drove back and that poor woman died in the meantime. I also couldn’t live or die knowing I’d led you into danger.”

Darius gave a crooked smile and a little huff of laughter in the back of his throat. “You’re very full of yourself to think that I’d waltz into danger on your behalf.”

Hamid felt the ghost of a smile cross his face, before Darius became solemn again.

“You’re right. This is the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done, but we have an obligation to help that girl if we can. There’s no time to call for backup. We knew the risks when we chose this job.”

Hamid wanted to argue, to tell Darius that it was worth the risk of Hamid’s life, but not his partner’s. It had been his fuckup not calling for backup in the first place. He’d started all of this, and it wasn’t fair that Darius would suffer. He knew that his partner wouldn’t hear a word of it. Darius felt the same responsibility to protect the potential victim, catch the killer, and stand by his partner.

He nodded. “We treat this place like ever inch is wired with explosives. Damn well might be.”

“Right.”

Hamid dropped the phone. They approached the building’s loading dock with their guns and flashlights raised. The only way they could have had better form would be if they actually had a SWAT team with them. If they were actually fucking smart.

No. Thinking like that wasn’t going to help. They needed to focus on where they were.

They found a side door unlocked. The look they shared said that they both understood that wasn’t a good sign.

They walked side-by-side into the darkened space. Detritus littered the concrete ground and there was graffiti on the walls. Darius’ flashlight pointed at the ground looking for tripwires, Hamid’s pointed straight ahead.

“See anything?” Hamid murmured.

“Nothing.”

They walked up the stairs onto a platform. Suddenly, a woman’s scream echoed against the walls.

Hamid swore and clutched his gun tighter. He exchanged confused and alarmed looks with Darius.

“Christine?” Darius whispered.

“Could be a trap,” Hamid responded, not saying anything they both didn’t already know.

Another scream came, high and ragged with pain and desperation. “Fuck,” he grunted. This time he was fairly certain that the origin of the sound was somewhere behind the door in front of them.

It could still easily be a trap. This whole goddamn thing could be a trap. But, if it wasn’t, then they were listening to someone being tortured to death. If that was the case, there was no way either of them could justify not pushing forward.

They stared at each other and shared a deep breath. “I’ll take lead,” Darius said, before Hamid could open his mouth.

He gritted his teeth, but nodded.

Darius slowly reached for the doorknob, both of them standing as far clear as they could. They both held their breath as he turned the knob until it clicked open, then slowly eased it open. They waited several seconds. Nothing happened.

Gun at the ready, Hamid walked in front of the door. The hallway was shadowy, light only reaching a few feet ahead of them. He couldn’t see any obvious traps; but, then, being too confident when it came to Jigsaw was a near-death sentence. He took out his pocket knife and threw it in, so it skittered across the ground.

Again, he waited. Again, nothing happened.

Darius stood beside him. They shared a long glance. “What do you think?” he asked.

Hamid took a deep breath. Just as he was opening his mouth, there was another scream. He gritted his teeth. “You don’t have to go.”

“Of course I am.”

They shared a long glance, then stepped through the door. They walked with slow deliberate strides, almost step-in-step.

After a few seconds, yet another scream echoed off the walls. Hamid suddenly registered that there was something off about the scream. A second later, it hit him: it had been the same scream each time. The same exact scream.

He stopped short and opened his mouth to alert Darius. The other man was two steps ahead of him when he was cut off by a metallic clack. Darius started to raise his gun. Before he could make another move, three jets of bright yellow liquid shot from the ceiling like water from a fire hose.

Darius screamed. He dropped his gun and uselessly tried to cover his head with his arms. An intense chemical stench overwhelmed Hamid, stinging his eyes. His own shout of alarm was drowned out by Darius’s agonized shrieking. He collapsed to the ground curled up as best he could into a ball. Hamid could see the liquid eating through his clothes and hair melting off of his scalp.

For a horrible moment, he was paralyzed, trapped between the knowledge that he had to get Darius to safety and that he couldn’t put himself in the way of the chemical blast. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was really seconds, he holstered his gun, tore off his coat, and pulled it over his head, with arms tucked in. He shut his eyes and mouth and angled his head down. Then, he ran forward as he fast as he could.

Every spot where the chemical had touched him started to burn through his his clothing. He kept running further than he had to, in order to get away from the chemicals. He threw the coat to the ground and turned around. Patches of Darius’s scalp were exposed, red, and blistered. His hands were even worse, like the skin was about to slough off.

Hamid picked up his coat, ignoring the way it made his hands tingle. He swung it over Darius’s upper body at the same time as he knelt on the balls of his feet. “I’ve got you!” he shouted. “Give me your hands!”

Darius thrust both arms out towards Hamid, still letting out the most horrifying scream Hamid had ever heard. He grabbed his clothed wrists and yanked as hard as he could. It seemed to take hours for him to pull Darius completely out of the way out of the stream.

He lay where he was placed, shuddering and moaning. Has gently as he could, he rolled Darius onto his back. Hamid’s heart stopped and his stomach clenched. Nearly every inch of his skin was red and blistered. In some places, layers of skin were starting to slide off. Blood coursed from his eyes, ears, and mouth. His eyes were red and there couldn’t be any way he could see. Whatever liquid it was had to be some extremely strong base or acid, maybe some leftover chemicals from the building’s time as a paint factory.

“Darius…! Oh, god.” His hand moved to reach out, but stopped, thinking he could only hurt Darius by touching him. He didn’t know if Darius could even hear him. He just continued moaning.

When he looked up, he realized with a lurch that the door had slammed shut while he had been focused on helping Darius. Knowing what they did about Jigsaw, they’d triggered something that locked them in. Maybe the door was unlocked, but that would mean getting the through the shower of acid. Just the brief time under it had eaten holes through his coat.

They’d fucked up. _He’d_ fucked up.

He frantically searched around as best he could without moving too far from Darius. Maybe there would be a tape or at least some kind of clue. There had to be _something_.

His eyes fell on a white square on the concrete. He snatched up what he now realized was a Polaroid.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but the result was still a punch to the gut. The picture was of three people--a man, a woman, and a child that couldn’t have been out of grade school--bound and gagged. The woman and the boy were slumped unconscious. The man seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings. The picture was zoomed in enough that he couldn’t get any clear view of where the three captives were. Looking closer, he noticed that there was something spread across the boy’s chest: a newspaper. It took him a moment to recognize the headline as that day’s.

The scream had been a recording, but there were real lives at stake. On top of everything, the picture hadn’t shown Christine Daaé. He now saw clearly that the car and phone had been bait to lure them into the trap. However, that didn’t mean that the girl wasn’t still in danger.

All of those thoughts raced through his head as he looked from the photo back to Darius. Hamid nearly vomited at the sight. He could barely distinguish the features of his friend’s face. Darius was gurgling and writhing faintly, but he seemed to be fading by the second.

“Darius.” He gently laid his fingertips on a spot of his shirt untouched by the acid. “Darius, I’m here. I’m sorry. Oh, god, I’m so sorry.”

Darius slowly raised a hand to touch Hamid’s arm. Hamid expected him to cling for comfort, but instead he pushed with what seemed like all of his remaining strength. Hamid understood his meaning clearly: _Go_.

He wished that he didn’t.

“I’ll come back. I’ll find this bastard, and I’ll make him pay. I promise. I’m going to come back, and we’re going to be alright. _Inshallah_.”

Darius just moaned. Hamid wished desperately that he could squeeze his hand or kiss his forehead, do anything to assure him. All that he could do was grab the flashlight he’d dropped and heave himself to his feet. “I’m sorry.” He kept repeating the words, even when no sound actually came out of his throat.

Ahead of him, the hallway ended in a sharp turn. His eyes landed on a shape in the corner. It took him a moment to recognize it as a surveillance camera. Somehow the rage that had been burning through him managed to flare even hotter. Without thinking, he stared into the lens and fired.

* * *

With one last shot of Hamid Kadivar aiming his gun, the security camera image went to static.

For a moment, Erik and John just stared at the monitor.

Eventually, John spoke up. “You’re relieved it wasn’t your friend.”

The corner of Erik’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile. “Personal attachments don’t disappear overnight. I’m sure you weren’t immediately dedicated to the cause and nothing else.”

“As long as your attachments don’t affect your judgment.”

“If they did, I wouldn’t have brought them to you, would I?”

John nodded slowly. “I want you to know that I do appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

“Hm.” Erik leaned back in his chair and stretched. “I’ll take care of it,” he said as he got to his feet.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your trap in practice.”

Erik’s mouth twitched. He had about reached his limit with the man’s condescension. John obviously didn’t trust Erik, at least not fully. Erik didn’t trust John either. They were both testing each other. If John decided that Erik didn’t measure up to his standards, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He probably already had a plan for how to do it. But, Erik was on guard, ready to defend himself, as he was always. He was careful not to underestimate the man, but if it came to a war between them, Erik was certain that he would win.

He hoped they wouldn’t reach that point, however. Before John Kramer, he had never encountered an intellect that could compare with his. He’d never met someone who thought on the same level, who truly understood what it was like to be superior.

He acknowledged that were things he could learn from John. This “game,” whatever its outcome would represent a new beginning. And, Erik was glad to see the past die.

"I appreciate your confidence." Erik stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.


End file.
